Oliver, OH Oliver…

I remember the day they first told me my son might have autism. It was at his pediatrician’s office. Oliver was different, beautifully different, but the world doesn’t always treat “different” kindly. He hated certain textures, couldn’t stand being touched, and food was a battle. On top of that, he was almost blind. Hearing the word autism that day broke something inside me.

I didn’t cry out of shame. I cried because I knew how unkind the world can be to people with disabilities. I called my cousin Enita, and as soon as she heard my voice, she cried too. It felt like a shift in our family’s universe. Suddenly, everything we knew about love had to evolve. We had to teach our family how to socialize with Oliver, how to see him, not just label him.

I was scared. But then, something beautiful happened. Oliver started talking. Then joking. He’d try to make me laugh, and when I did, he’d smile, knowing he made me happy. He found a rhythm in connection. He loved reading, just like me. That’s when I realized, even through all the differences, he had so much of me in him.

Then came the poetry. He started writing, feeling, expressing. And every so often, he’d ask for a “12-second hug.” I take every one of those hugs like they’re gold.

Oliver is one of a kind, sharp, funny, high-functioning, and at times a little impatient with the rest of us “low-functioning” folks (his words, not mine). But he is HIM, authentic, curious, and full of heart.

Takeaway…

Raising Oliver has taught me that love isn’t about changing someone to fit the world, it’s about changing the world to fit the person you love. His diagnosis didn’t define him; it refined me. It made me softer, stronger, and far more patient with the unseen battles people carry.